


Still

by SigmaCreations



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Chance Meetings, F/M, Love, Reunions, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-22 22:44:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12492492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SigmaCreations/pseuds/SigmaCreations
Summary: Set after Ruth's exile and mostly ignoring canon. Harry is in Rome on holiday and... Well, I'll not give too much away. Thanks for reading and, hopefully, reviewing. Cheers, S.C.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I'm relieved to be writing again as my muse disappeared off the face of the earth for a while once I'd finished writing 'The Affair'. I'm glad she hasn't deserted me altogether and hope that this offering in up to scratch. Reviews are always appreciated. Thanks for reading, S.C.

_**Rome – 5 th September 2013** _

 

The heat is too much for him, zapping his energy, and he can feel the sweat trickling down his neck and into his shirt collar. He pauses to take out his handkerchief again and wipe his brow, his face and neck. He'd really hoped it wouldn't get this hot in September.

“Harry?” his companion questions, stopping to look at him.

“You go on without me,” he replies, making a sudden decision. “I'll find some place to sit in the shade for a bit.”

“But you don't want to miss-” she protests, but he cuts her off impatiently.

“I do. Sightseeing isn't really my thing, Meg, and besides, I'm only slowing you down.” He turns to address the rest of his companions – two women they'd met at their hotel a couple of days ago with whom they'd arranged to see the sights. “Forgive me, ladies,” he says graciously, “but this heat and my leg.” He taps the side of his left leg with his cane and gives them an apologetic look. “You'll take care of Meg for me, won't you?”

“But of course, Harry,” Judy replies.

“Don't worry about a thing,” Sandra reassures him, patting his arm. “You just rest. Find a café and have a nice, cool drink.”

“Thank you,” he smiles, turning to Meg again, who steps closer and reaches up to kiss his cheek.

“I'll ring you when we're done,” she says.

“Okay.” He lifts his gaze and his eyes alight on a small, quaint, little bookshop tucked away on the corner of an alley, something about it speaking to his heart, drawing him in. Maybe it's the name – _Amores_. “I think I might actually try that little bookshop. Look for me there when you're done.”

“Alright.” She squeezes his arm, and sets off with her companions as he carefully crosses the street, grateful of the freedom he's won for himself for a little while and the peace. He doesn't particularly enjoy the inane chatter of the two women they'd picked up at their hotel, but Meg seems to like them, and if she's happy, he's happy too, especially if it takes the pressure off him to entertain her. She wants to do absolutely everything together, which had never been a problem at home. They've never had to spend entire days and nights in each other's company before, however, and he finds himself tiring of it fast.

 _Well, it would have to be someone whose conversation you enjoyed, yet who understood the need sometimes for quiet..._ He sighs and rubs his forehead. Will he never get over her, all that she was, all that she meant to him?

He shakes his head to clear it and puts a hand on the door, pushing it open. A bell tinkles as it opens and he steps inside, closing it carefully behind him, the coolness of the room almost making him sigh in relief. He turns and takes a few steps forward, leaning more heavily on his cane after the exertion of their walk, his eyes taking in the shelves of books, the gentle, inviting atmosphere of the shop that seems to transport one back in time to a less hurried, more relaxed era. He smiles appreciatively, thinking that he's quite possibly stumbled upon the loveliest bit of Rome, but as he approaches the counter, he falters. The person behind it is crouching down, out of sight except for the top of their head, humming along to the song on the radio and moving about, probably unpacking a box of books judging by the sound of the tearing tape. His heart-rate has increased at the sight of the chocolate brown strands of hair on the top of that head, the shade reminding him of someone incredibly dear to him, his heart leaping at the thought that it might be _her_ – the woman he's been searching for all his life it seems.

She lifts her head above the counter, a flash of blues eyes that stops his heart as she glances his way and says, “Solo un attimo, per favore,” before turning back to her task, the tape ripping once more until, suddenly, all is still, the only sound coming from the small radio in the corner that's playing a French love-song. She freezes and slowly rises to her feet, his heart pounding at the familiarness of her figure, the dawning realisation that this is too much of a coincidence for it to be anyone else. He holds his breath as she turns to face him, blue eyes meeting hazel again after all this time.

It's her. _Good God, but it's her!_ He feels tears spring to his eyes as he stares at her, taking her in, half-convinced he's hallucinating, the other half of him not caring one jot if he is. She seems just as shocked, just as moved by their encounter, staring at him for long moments, tears beginning to run down her cheeks.

“Harry?” she whispers.

“Ruth,” he replies gruffly, taking a step towards her.

Her eyes drop to his cane, her face filling with concern as she quickly wipes her cheeks, turns, and walks round the counter to join him, covering the distance between them on quick, agile feet, and making him suddenly feel old and broken by comparison.

“What happened to you, Harry?” she asks, worriedly. “I thought I told you not to get shot.”

“I didn't,” he replies, his heart warming at her words, hope flooding through him. “It was a bomb,” he supplies at her probing look. “Hip fracture, some internal damage, but I'm fine now.”

Her face crumbles, tears glistening in her eyes again as she reaches for him, gently grasping his right elbow, then moving closer, stepping into his space, briefly wrapping her arms around him and pressing her lips against his cheek once before pulling back. “I'm glad you're alright,” she says, squeezing his arm again before dropping her hand to her side. “It's _so_ good to see you, Harry.”

“And you, Ruth,” he answers gruffly, yearning to pull her into his arms again and kiss her properly, the feel of her, the scent of her stirring up a maelstrom of emotions inside him.

They're silent for a moment again, just staring at each other as he marvels at the fact that he's found her. _Finally._ After all this time.

“Does it hurt?” she asks eventually, nodding at his leg.

“From time to time,” he confesses. “Sightseeing isn't the best thing for it.”

“Let me get you a chair,” she says immediately and turns away only to turn back again and suggest, “or there's an armchair in the reading nook at the back if you'd prefer?”

“That sounds rather good, actually.”

So he follows her down an aisle of books to the back of the shop where two armchairs are angled towards each other with a coffee table between them and a few books stacked on either side. It's a lovely, little nook with a studied disorder about it designed to make one feel at home and he's sure he can detect Ruth's hand in creating it. She smiles and watches him as he hobbles over to the armchair on their right and carefully eases himself into it, extending his left leg as he lowers himself and closing his eyes with relief for a moment before opening them again to find her watching him.

“Cup of coffee?” she offers.

“Do you treat all your customers this well?” he can't help teasing.

“Only the very special ones,” she replies, making his heart skip several beats again.

“Coffee would be lovely, thank you.”

“Milk and two sugars?”

“Just one.” He grimaces. “Doctor's orders.”

“They spoil all the fun, don't they?”

He grins. He can't help it. “Ruth-” he begins, but the tinkle of the bell interrupts him.

“Zia Alice?” a girl's voice calls.

“Sono qui, Beatrice,” Ruth replies, turning towards the sound and walking away from him.

His eyes follow her, transfixed by her graceful movement, the way her summer dress clings to her hips and swirls around her legs, the soft, swell of her bottom swaying seductively before him, and the tanned skin of her shoulders, neck, calves and arms begging to be kisses, touched, savoured. He blinks, a little ashamed of himself and where his thoughts have wandered, and watches as a girl of maybe ten or eleven skips towards Ruth, wrapping her arms around her as Ruth embraces her and says more things in Italian. He catches the word Papa a few times and something about lunch as he tries and fails to stop the disappointment and the pain from flooding his heart. Of course she has a life here – a lover, maybe even a husband, a family. He has a life too at home – he has Meg and a grandson and Catherine's pregnant again, and no matter how much he wishes things to be different, he can't go back and change the past. Seeing her again, re-establishing contact is going to have to be enough for now at least, though maybe one day...

He'd never abandoned hope that they will meet again, that they'll be given another chance at love with each other, but the stark contrast between her – her youth, her beauty and grace, her full life here – and his own age, broken body and spirit, is making him see how futile his hopes have been. Seventeen years – that's the age difference between them. Who's he kidding? Why would Ruth want an old, broken man like him when she could have anyone? Why would she love him still, after all this time, with so many better men to choose from? He sighs and picks up a book, needing a distraction from the overwhelming, conflicting emotions inside him. He's overjoyed to see her, yet he feels even further from his dream than ever before.

He sets the book aside when Ruth returns, carrying a tray with two coffee cups, and he can't help feeling thrilled that she's decided to join him – he'll take whatever she willingly gives him of her time and attention. She sets it down on the table between them and sits in the other chair, smiling at him.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, lifting his cup and taking a sip. He thinks it might be the best coffee he's ever tasted.

“My pleasure.” She takes a sip of her own drink.

“You never used to drink coffee,” he comments, watching her.

“I know, but when in Rome...” She gives him an impish smile, dimples flashing, and he chuckles.

“Have you been here long?”

“A few years now. I moved around for about a year and then figured it was safe to find a nice place to settle down. I thought about choosing somewhere out of the way, but I couldn't resist the pull of Rome. I got a job as a tour-guide initially – put my degree to good use – but it was tiring work and after I met the owner of this place, I decided this was a much more elegant and simple way to live. So here I am.”

He smiles. “This place suits you. The moment I saw it, I was inexplicably drawn to it. Now I know why.”

She gazes at him across her coffee cup, her gaze bolder than it used to be, more confident and direct. She seems so different, yet the same – still gorgeous in his eyes, brilliant like a jewel in amongst so much coloured glass. “And what about you, Harry?”

“There's nothing much to tell,” he replies, taking another sip of his coffee. “I stayed on the Grid and did my best to do the right thing, keep people safe. We've not had an easy time of it. Then a couple of years ago, I was stabbed by a ghost from the past and suffered a collapsed lung and extensive blood-loss for my sins. I recovered from that and went back to the Grid, but almost a year later to the day was the bomb, so... I've been decommissioned, given early retirement.”

“You've left the Service?” she asks in surprise.

“Been kicked out, more like, but yes, the result is the same.” He makes a face. Part of him knows his job was far too demanding for him to continue in it now, but he also hates having nothing to do, endless days stretched out in front of him with nothing meaningful, nothing worthwhile except perhaps spending time with his children and grandchildren. “Catherine's pregnant again and her son, Arthur, is two now, so I spend time with him when I can.”

“You're a grandpa? That's wonderful! Congratulations, Harry,” she smiles.

“Thank you.”

A silence settles between them and he suspects she's wondering exactly what he's wondering about too, or perhaps that's just wishful thinking on his part. What does she care if he's with someone or not?

“We cleared your name,” he says after a beat.

“What?!”

“Malcolm and I,” he explains. “We cleared your name. The PM has pardoned you and your record has been expunged. The death registry has been amended and you're free to return home at any time.”

Her eyes have filled with tears, her hand covering her mouth, and she seems at a loss for words. Then abruptly, she gets up and moves close, cupping his cheek and reaching down to softly kiss his lips. “Thank you, Harry,” she murmurs as she pulls back, eyes luminous as they gaze into his, taking his breath away. Before he can recover from his surprise, however, and his heart can stutter back to life, the shop bell announces the arrival of another customer and Ruth pulls back, giving him one more look before she whisks their empty coffee cups away and he's left staring after her retreating figure again.

He's only just managed to recover enough to stand and follow her, when Meg accosts him.

“ _There_ you are,” she says, smiling as she stops and turns to walk down the aisle towards him.

“Meg,” he murmurs in resignation, glancing over her shoulder to see Ruth turn to look at him at the sound of Meg's voice and then turn quickly away again. “That was quick,” he comments as he drops his eyes back to Meg's, wondering if perhaps he's been here with Ruth for hours without realising it.

“We went to the Spanish steps and saw the church, Fontana della Barcaccia, on the square there and then Judy and Sandra wanted to go to Trevi Fountain, but I said I'd come back and check on you, and if you're feeling up to it, that we'd join them there,” she replies. She reaches her hand to rest it on his chest and adds softly, “I didn't want to see the fountain of love without you.” 

His lips move automatically when Meg kisses him, but his thoughts are still with Ruth – who's disappeared in the back – his mind still full of her soft kiss, the stormy depths of her eyes, the yearning for her that's been with him for years, squashed down and buried inside him, but which has risen to the surface now and ignited, the flames rising higher with each passing moment, scorching and impossible to douse. If only he'd had more time, just a few moments more to talk to Ruth, find out what her kiss had meant, discover if her feelings are unchanged too, if she wants him still after all this time and despite his injuries and the fact that he's just a couple months shy of sixty. But, as ever, there isn't any time for the pair of them.

He sighs, then seeing the frown that creases Meg's brow, he pulls himself hastily together. “I think I can manage that,” he murmurs, watching the frown dissolve and the smile spread across her lips. She's so easily pleased, is Meg, and he's thought that a good thing up until now. Certainly while he was working it had been good, when he could easily make it up to her when he had to postpone plans they'd made at the last moment. Now though, he finds it irritates him – quite a few things do, in fact, and not just as a result of running into Ruth again. This trip has highlighted for him how incompatible they really are and he's convinced now that living with Meg would drive him slowly insane.

“That's great,” she beams and turns. “Shall we go?”

“Yes,” he agrees, moving towards the counter where Ruth has just reappeared. “Just give me a moment, Meg. I'll meet you outside.”

Meg looks up at him and then at Ruth, perhaps sensing the undercurrent of emotion in the room because she doesn't do as he asks, but stands her ground instead. “Do you know this woman?” she questions.

It's on the tip of his tongue to say no, when Ruth moves round the counter and extends her hand towards her. “We used to work together, a long time ago. I'm Alice. Alice Steele.”

“Meg Winter,” Meg replies, shaking Ruth's hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“And you,” Ruth smiles. “How are you liking Rome?”

“Oh it's lovely,” Meg beams. “We've been here three days already, but we're leaving first thing in the morning.”

“That's a shame,” Ruth replies, glancing at him. “I have plans tonight or I'd invite you round for dinner.”

“That's very kind,” Meg smiles. “I didn't realise Harry knew anyone here.”

“Oh, he didn't either,” Ruth reassures her. “We've not kept in touch. It was pure coincidence that Harry stepped into my bookshop.”

“It's lovely,” Meg observes, looking around as their conversation continues for some minutes, Harry looking on in silence as the emotions ebb and flow inside him, feeling pride in Ruth one minute – sure that this is all an act, just a brilliant demonstration of what a good spook she is – and despair the next when he realises that perhaps she's being genuine and the thought that he's moved on leaves her indifferent or just plain happy for him.

She's certainly very different now to the Ruth he'd known before – more happy, more confident, more at peace, more like the eager, new recruit she'd been when she'd first joined his team – yet her spark, her brilliance hasn't diminished either, despite the simple and elegant nature of her life and work now. She could run circles around Meg, and he can't for the life of him understand how he could have even contemplated a life with her instead. She's pretty, charming, and entertaining certainly, and she'd stuck with him despite his injuries and the time it's taken for him to recover enough to walk, let alone go on holiday together. But seeing them here together, side by side, Ruth is so much _more_ than Meg could ever be, despite the fact that most men would probably say she's not as beautiful. Meg is taller, slimmer, blonder, and her eyes are bluer than Ruth's, but she lacks the depth, the strength of character, the brilliance of Ruth's mind, the storminess of her eyes, and the quickness of her wit, the sexiness of her lips and dimples, the softness of her body, and the history between them. Ruth knows him in a way that no one else ever will. She _sees_ him, _all_ of him, and loves him anyway... or she used to at any rate – he's not so sure that's true any more.

“Harry?” Ruth's voice brings him back to his surroundings with a jolt.

“Sorry?”

“I just asked you if you're ready to go.” Meg laughs. “He's always like this,” she confides. “Never listens to a word anyone's saying.”

Ruth just smiles and catches his eye, boosting his spirits considerably. Maybe it's all an act after all. Ruth knows him well enough to know that statement is simply not true. Ruth knows him better than Meg ever could or he'd ever want her to.

“Well,” Ruth says, “I'll not keep you. Enjoy the rest of your trip.” She shakes Meg's hand and then turns to look at him, eyes fathomless and so blue that he feels himself drowning in them. “Take care, Harry,” she says, extending her hand.

He takes it, the feel of her hand nestled in his overwhelming him with emotion. There haven't been that many times over the years when he's had occasion to feel her skin against his own, the warmth of it, its softness, the sparks her touch ignites in him that spread through his body like wildfire, and for a moment, he's speechless, utterly captivated by her and his yearning for her, his desperate need to be with her and never let her go, until somehow he manages to find the strength to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “And you. Keep in touch, won't you?”

“I guess that's allowed, now that you've retired,” she smiles, gently pulling her hand from his and leaving him bereft. “You'd better give me your number.”

“Of course,” he agrees, his heart skipping a few beats again. “Give me a moment,” he says to Meg, who nods and turns to peruse the travel guides on the bookshelf beside them as he follows Ruth to the counter. She slips behind it again and reaches under it for her phone, but it appears to be missing.

“That's funny,” she says, leaning over to root around for it and giving him a tantalising view of her cleavage that almost stops his heart. “I'm sure I had it here. I always try to-” She cuts herself off with a sigh and straightens up again just in time to stop him from doing anything stupid. “I was using it this morning. I think I left it at home. Here. Just take a card from the bookshop and write your number down for me here. I'll text you later so you have my mobile too, but you can usually find me here during the week.” She hands him a business card and a notepad and pen, so he pockets the former and scribbles down his phone number on the pad and hands it back to her.

He hates this. He doesn't want to leave her. Not again. Not ever. But Meg is standing somewhere behind him and he's still not sure what Ruth wants from him. The feeling that she only wants to be friends is overwhelmingly strong and he doesn't want to jeopardise that by asking for more. At least, not now. Not like this. There's nothing to be gained by a confession of his love and deep yearning for her now, with Meg as an audience and putting Ruth on the spot. If anything, he's sure it will backfire quite spectacularly. He's about to say something reassuring instead when her eyes change, looking suddenly distant and wistful before she drops her gaze from his face, a small, sad smile appearing on her lips.

“What?” he asks, fascinated by the sudden shift in her mood.

She shakes her head and lifts her eyes to his again, gaze fathomless once more. “It's nothing.”

He frowns and waits, giving her his best Grid Harry, interrogation look, and watching as a slow smile spreads across her lips.

“I'm immune to that look, Harry,” she says impishly, making him smile in spite of himself.

“Is that so? But what about this one?” he asks, softening his gaze and pursing his lips, silently beseeching her.

She bites her lower lip and shakes her head at him, dropping her gaze demurely, so clearly affected by him that hope surges inside him. “That's not fair,” she protests, glancing back up at him and then over his shoulder.

“I'm a spook, Ruth,” he murmurs softly, keeping his voice down so they're not overheard. “We never play fair.”

“Was,” she corrects, lifting her eyes to his again.

“Once a spook, always a spook.” He watches her smile and nod in silent acknowledgement of their shared past before dropping her gaze again and lifting her hand to slide a wayward strand of her hair behind her ear. “Okay,” she murmurs, lifting her eyes to his. “It's that song. It always makes me think of you, that's all.” He listens, the tune foreign, the words in Italian and indecipherable to him. Then she reaches across the counter and gently squeezes his hand, drawing his full attention to the feel of it resting against his skin. “See you around, Harry, and remember not to get shot, won't you?”

“I will,” he replies, giving her a crooked smile as he turns his hand under hers, his heart racing at the feel of their palms clasped together and, at the same time, aching with the pain of having to let her go again. “Or blown up, or stabbed, hopefully. Take care, Ruth.”

“Bye, Harry,” she says and pulls her hand away, saying a little louder, “Goodbye, Meg.”

“Bye, Alice,” Meg replies and he takes this as his cue to leave Ruth – and his heart – behind once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all for your enthusiasm for this fic. I'm planning to keep it rather short, but hopefully still enjoyable. Here's the next chapter in honour of Peter Firth's birthday today. S.C. x

The inane chatter continues around him but he's only vaguely listening, making noises in all the right places though his mind is full of other things – namely his encounter with Ruth. He can't get her out of his mind, doesn't really want to even try. He fingers the business card from her bookshop in his pocket, longing to ring her, yet knowing that she'll not be there at this time of night.

They've eaten and are lingering over dessert and coffee while Meg chats away with Judy and Sandra and he makes the minimum possible contribution to their conversation. Ruth had said she has plans too tonight and he can't help hoping to bump into her again, though he's not at all sure he wants that really if she's out with some strapping, young Italian, or worse still, an older one, a decade or so younger than him, still fit, still whole, still virile, but mature enough to please and appreciate Ruth.

She hasn't texted him her number yet, which isn't a good sign. His heart aches at the thought that she's lost to him forever despite the fact that he's finally found her again.

“What do you think, Harry?” Meg says, drawing him out of his depressing thoughts.

“Sorry?”

“ _Harry!_ ” Meg admonishes. “You never listen to a word I'm saying!” She pouts in what she must think is an adorable way, so he leans forward and kisses her cheek, murmuring an apology as he wonders what he ever saw in her and marvels that their relationship has lasted this long. He's certain that wouldn't have been the case if he'd not been injured. She smiles and asks again, “What do you think of a little stroll? It's such a lovely night for it.”

“Alright,” he agrees.

Meg beams at him as he lifts his hand to call the waiter over. He pays their half of the bill and leaves a generous tip for the lad before following the others out of the restaurant and into the cool night. It's a pleasant temperature for a stroll and he's glad to be moving again – his thoughts about Ruth are making him restless. Meg has linked her arm through his, Judy and Sandra walking along beside her, chatting away again. He cannot fathom having so much to say to people – friends and strangers alike. He misses Ruth – the way they used to be able to communicate without words, the way she always knew when to speak and when to be quiet. He misses the way she'd stand up to him, tell him when she thought he was wrong, and argue her point with facts and logic, rather than trying to manipulate him through emotions and guilt. He misses the...

He pauses, turning his head to listen, the music spilling out of the café they're passing catching his attention. He's sure that this is the song Ruth told him made her think of him. He's been trying to remember the tune all day, more than curious about the reasons why it reminds her of him – one specific song. He finds that puzzling as it's not even in English. There's no way it's connected to him by circumstances. It can't have been a song playing on the radio while he drove her home, or one in the background on their first – and only – date, and as far as he's concerned, every song about love and heartbreak makes him think of her. ****He only listens to classical music most of the time now to avoid that pain.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs, disentangling himself from Meg. “I'll be right back,” he adds and disappears into the shop, making his way to the till and asking the young woman there if she knows the name of the song.

“But of course!” she replies, looking a little surprised by the question. “It is _Ancora_. It is old – this song.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, then realising he doesn't know how to spell that or the name of the artist, he asks her to write it down for him and then, as an afterthought, he thinks to buy each of the ladies he's with a small gelato to allay their suspicions and avoid having to answer any awkward questions.

They're delighted by his thoughtfulness, Meg looking particularly pleased, almost as if she's happy that he's showing himself in such a good light, so she can be proud of being seen with him. It's not the first time he's wondered if Meg is mainly after his title and his bank balance in the end. She hasn't offered to pay for a single thing on this trip, and he can just see her going around telling everyone she's Lady Pearce, whereas Ruth would laugh at the very idea and would probably refuse to change her name anyway. He's not a particularly lovable person if he's honest, and she's been far too accommodating and forgiving to not arouse his suspicions. Two years they've been together and she's yet to make any real demands on him. He rather suspects she's saving them all up for after their wedding – something he's sure she's hoping will happen soon. Little does she know that it never will, and not just because he's found Ruth again.

They make a short circuit through the streets of Rome before returning to their hotel where they say goodbye to Judy and Sandra and make their way to their room together. He sits down on the bed, telling Meg he needs a moment to recover from their walk and suggesting she use the bathroom first. Thankfully, Meg's not the kind of woman who enjoys sharing the bathroom, so she readily agrees and disappears inside, but it's not until he hears the shower running that he deems it safe to look up Ruth's song, or more accurately, Eduardo De Crescenzo's. He grabs his reading glasses and his tablet computer – the screen of his phone is too bloody tiny to see anything much – and sets to work looking up the lyrics and a translation of them into English.

“It's the dead of night and I'm awake  
You are always my obsession  
Together with you, I was better  
And the more I think of you, the more I want you  
All the trouble made to have you  
For this love that was an unripe fruit  
And now that I love you, I lose you

Still, still, still  
Because, since that night,  
I have never made love without you  
And I don't give a damn about anything, without you  
Even if I met an angel, I would say,  
'You don't make me fly as high as she.'”

He reads it again and again, heart expanding, beating wildly with relief and joy as he realises that he means as much to her now as ever. He has to see her again. He has to find her, tell her what's in his heart. He can't leave Rome in the morning. Thank God, they've left Rome for last and are flying straight home tomorrow rather than onto another city first. It won't be so hard to explain to Meg that he wants to stay another day to talk to his former colleague. She'll be miffed to be going home alone, but he hopes she'll not make too much of a scene.

The shower stops, alerting him to the fact that Meg will be out of the bathroom soon, so he quickly turns off the tablet and removes his glasses, putting them both away before he begins to remove his shoes and undress down to his underwear. He's just grabbing his pyjamas from under the pillow when Meg walks out of the bathroom, looking particularly alluring, and if it hadn't been for Ruth and the prospect of all his dreams coming true tomorrow, he'd be glad of it and ready to accept her silent invitation. Now though, he feels himself groan inwardly. He's going to have to pretend to be exhausted tonight, he realises as he smiles at her and slips past her into the bathroom, closing and locking the door firmly behind him. He'd also best tell her his plan to stay on in Rome in the morning. The last thing he wants is a massive argument right before bed – far better to have that when they're both well rested.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Rome – 6 th September 2013** _

 

The argument hadn't been as bad as he'd anticipated and they'd parted amiably enough with a promise that he'll ring her when he gets back home. She'd kissed him before he'd helped her into the taxi and closed the door behind her, standing and watching it pull away until she'd disappeared into the early morning traffic. He'd not given her cause to think things were over between them. He'd thought that would be far better done after his return home. He imagines that he has Ruth's performance at the bookshop yesterday to thank for Meg's easy departure. She must think she has nothing to worry about. Should he feel guilty about that, he wonders. Should he have told her the truth? What would Ruth do, think about his actions? He frowns, realising that he has no idea.

For years, he's asked himself that question – what would Ruth do, what would Ruth say, what would Ruth think? – in every dilemma, every new bit on intel, every operation, and he's always thought he knew the answer before and acted accordingly. But those had been work decisions, not personal ones, and he realises suddenly that he doesn't know her well enough to make that call now. He has no idea what Ruth would do in this situation, what she'll think of his actions.

It's over with Meg. He knows that, and what happens between him and Ruth has no baring on it. He'll not go back to her even if Ruth rejects him – something he desperately hopes is very unlikely. So why ruin a perfectly nice holiday for her, make her travel home broken-hearted and in tears, or at the very least, angry and disappointed? Why not leave it until after her return home, her return to her life, work, family, and her friends? Surely that is the kinder thing to do, isn't it? Tell her when she has people around her to support her and help her through the break-up?

He shakes his head, realising that it doesn't matter anyway. The decision has been made and it's too late now to change it. So he pushes further thoughts of Meg aside, turns, and goes back into the hotel to book another room for a couple of nights, move his suitcase into it, and quickly depart for the bookshop. It's Friday, so he hopes this means Ruth's working, but when he arrives, he finds a young man behind the counter instead and no sign of Ruth at all.

He asks for her and is told she'll not be coming in today, making his heart sink. He'd not anticipated a problem in finding Ruth this morning. She still hasn't rung or texted him, and he worries that seeing him with Meg yesterday will have lead her to believe that he's moved on and made her reluctant to reach out to him. Desperately, he asks the young man if he knows her phone number, and ends up almost having a full blown argument with him when the youth refuses to give it to him. Eventually, he manages to convince him to ring her himself, but the call goes directly to voicemail – the fact that she's turned her phone off worrying him even more. Frustrated and in pain, he leaves a note for her with his name and number again, telling her that he's still in Rome and suggesting they have dinner together. He asks the lad to pass it on to Ruth when he sees her and leaves the shop, pausing on the doorstep to get his bearings and decide what to do next.

He feels incredibly frustrated and impatient, unable to believe how fate seems to constantly be throwing obstacles between him and Ruth and wishing that, for once, he could just catch a break. No sooner has he had the thought when he spies the girl that came to talk to Ruth yesterday. What was her name? Beatrice – that's right. For a moment he hesitates, remembering the familiarity between her and Ruth, worried that she's related to her in some way, perhaps through the girl's father, but he quickly pushes the worry aside. First he needs to find Ruth – then he can worry about the rest.

“Excuse me,” he says, crossing the road to speak to her. “Beatrice?”

“Sì?” she stops to look at him.

“Do you remember me?” he asks, enunciating clearly, unsure if the girl speaks English. “I was in the bookshop yesterday.” He points to the shop across the street.

She smiles. “Sì. With Alice,” she answers, saying the name with a musical, Italian accent.

“Yes,” he replies in relief. “Do you know where she is?”

“No,” she says and Harry sighs with disappointment.

“Do you know where she lives?”

“Lives?” the girl asks.

“Yes. Where's her home? Where is Alice's casa?” he says, suddenly remembering the Spanish word for it – it's the same as the Italian one if he's not mistaken.

“Sì,” she answers and a long stream of Italian follows.

He sighs, beginning to despair, but the girl reaches for his hand and pulls on it gently. She points to the bus stop and Harry understands, following her to it and listening attentively to her directions in a mixture of broken English and Italian, and he manages to understand which bus he needs to take and the number of stops until he gets there. She tells him the name of a park, but she doesn't appear to know the street or house number, which is disappointing since the rest of her directions are difficult to understand. Still, the park is one step closer to Ruth, so he thanks her anyway, giving her five Euros for her help, which makes her beam up at him and run off happily to spend it.

Finding Ruth by going in search of her home when he doesn't know where it is exactly and is not sure that's where she can be found this morning anyway seems like a futile attempt at best, but he's got nothing better to do with his time and no other leads to pursue, so he gets on the next bus.

Despite his best efforts he ends up getting off one stop too soon, according to a nice, young woman he asks for directions, so it takes him a few minutes to reach the park Beatrice told him about. He does a slow circuit of it but has no luck in finding Ruth, so he consoles himself with an ice cream and a rest on a shady bench he finds along the main path running through the centre of the park. There's a fountain a few yards further up and a lot of people passing by, clearly cutting through the park on their way to their destination. He hopes that Ruth might do likewise and walk straight past his bench, but he rather thinks it might be a futile one.

He's just finished his ice cream and is wondering how many days he should stay in Rome, waiting for her to make contact, when he sees her, hurrying along the main path, but suddenly veering off to a smaller one before she's reached him. Her hands are full of shopping bags and he doesn't think she's seen him, so he quickly dismisses the notion that she's trying to avoid him and gets to his feet, hurrying along after her as fast as his injured hip will allow. Her steps are quick and he almost despairs of ever catching up with her when, to his relief, she stops by a bench to put her shopping down and flex her fingers – clearly the shopping in heavy. He doesn't slacken his pace, intent on reaching her before she sets off again, and only slows once he's almost there, taking the opportunity to calm his breathing before he joins her.

“Hello, Ruth,” he says, watching as her head jerks up and turns to him, her eyes widening in disbelief.

“Harry?” she breathes as he takes the last few steps to her side and stops. “What are you doing here? Don't you have a flight to catch?”

“I changed it,” he explains. “That song... I couldn't just _leave_ , Ruth.” His eyes soften as he looks at her, filling with all the longing and the love spilling from his heart, and he sees hers change too, reflecting the hope rising within her.

“And Meg?” she asks softly.

He glances at his watch. “About to board the plane, I imagine.”

She smiles, eyes lighting up, as blue as the sky above them, and he can't help leaning forward and softly pressing his lips against hers. “Ruth,” he murmurs, his hand cupping her face, but she doesn't let him finish.

“What are you doing today?” she asks.

“Spending it with you?” he suggests, hopefully.

“Yes. Yes, you are.” And she gives him the most brilliant smile he's ever seen before she reaches up and quickly kisses his lips. “Come on then,” she says, her joy infectious, and leans over to pick up the shopping bags, leaving a couple for him, before starting to follow the path again at a slower, more relaxed pace.

“Where are we going?” he asks once he's caught up with her, his eyes darting all over her face, her joy making her ten times more beautiful than before. He can't believe that this is happening, that his luck has finally turned where Ruth is concerned, the joy lifting his heart so foreign and almost overwhelming.

“You'll see,” she replies mysteriously, giving him a mischievous smile and playful look, and she looks so very happy and he can't get enough of her, drinking her in with a joy and a longing that has him barely able to contain his desire to drop the shopping, pull her into his arms, and kiss her senseless.

They walk in silence after that, exchanging warm looks and soft smiles, the usual pain in his leg nowhere to be found, the contentment blanketing his heart indescribably good. He's missed this so much – the closeness, the feeling that it's just the two of them against the world. He'd not realised how valuable that was and how much he needed it until he'd lost it.

He'd had something like it with his Section Chiefs for a while, but it had been a pale, weak imitation of what he'd had with Ruth, and they'd all failed him in the end anyway – Adam had fallen apart on him, with Ros there had been Yalta, Lucas had been too damaged by his years in Russia, and Erin too young and ambitious. He'd never found what he'd had with Ruth again – not at work, not at home, not with anyone. It's no wonder really that his relationship with Meg had failed. His heart has been closed off for years with only Ruth somehow finding the key to unlock it, and suddenly, his recent choice of companion makes perfect sense to him. Being with Meg had been safe because she'd cared enough, but not too much, had accepted his limitations and found other consolations for them. The women who'd asked for more, he'd unceremoniously dispensed with. Only Meg had survived because she'd been content with what he chose to give, which was hardly anything at all. Somehow, only Ruth can find a way through to him, only Ruth has the key to his heart, only Ruth has earned his trust, his loyalty, his love, and he is overjoyed to be with her once more.

He assumes they're going to her home, and is somewhat surprised when she stops beside a small Fiat parked along the street.

“Here we are,” she says. “My car. It's not much, but I like him.”

“Him?” he questions, lifting an eyebrow in amusement.

“His name's Harry,” she replies, watching for his reaction.

He purses his lips, unsure of how to feel about that. “He's a bit small for a Harry,” he says eventually, eyes twinkling at her.

“He's reliable, tougher than he looks, and he takes good care of me,” is her response.

He smiles slowly in satisfaction, gaze dropping to her lips as he succumbs to his desire to kiss her, but she turns away from him, unlocking the car and opening the back door, arranging the shopping on the floor behind the driver's seat and the back seat of the car. Once she's done, she invites him to hop in and they set off, though she still refuses to tell him where they're going.

They swing by his hotel to get his bag, which joins the shopping on the back seat, and then they set off again, making their way East out of Rome, and he can't help the way his heart sings at the realisation that she wants him to spend more than the day with her. They've not talked about anything important yet, about this thing between them, their feelings and where this is going, and part of him's a little worried that her plans for them aren't nearly as long term as his own. He loves her and he wants her and he hopes to stay with her until his final breath upon this earth. He hopes she wants the same thing, but he can't be sure yet. And though he intends to find out soon, he's perfectly content to just enjoy her for now, enjoy _them_ – together. After all, he's not going to change his mind about going with her, wherever she takes him, and doing whatever she has in mind for them this weekend, for any time spent with Ruth is precious and far better than the alternative.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just a quick note to say thank you again for your support and reviews, and also, to warn you that this chapter is M-rated in honour of Harry's birthday today. Cheers, S.C.

He's spent the entire drive watching her, drinking her in, unable to believe that he's here with her, and he's so engrossed in his thoughts and feelings that it comes as a bit of a surprise when they eventually stop.

“We're here,” she says, turning to smile at him.

“Where's here?” he asks, peering out the window.

“My home away from home,” she replies. “It's where I go to escape the hustle and bustle of city life.” And with that she gets out of the car, so he follows.

It's a small bungalow near the outskirts of a village and the edge of a forest, with a fantastic view of the valley below them. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, struck by the scenery and the way she looks standing in the sunlight, hair tousled by the breeze, eyes bright and lips smiling as she stops to gaze at the view for a moment.

“I know. I love this place,” she says and sighs in contentment.

She turns to smile at him, then opens the back door of the car, grabbing some shopping bags and making her way through the wooden gate and up the path to the front door, calling over her shoulder, “Come inside.”

The house itself is charming, small but welcoming and full of little ornaments and trinkets that remind him of her home back in England as he'd found it when he'd gone to pick up her cats.

“What is it?” she asks, and he turns to find her watching him.

“It's lovely,” he replies. “Very you.”

“Thank you,” she says and moves through to the kitchen, putting the bags down on the floor and beginning to unpack them.

“Is it yours – this place?” he asks.

“Yes. I've been very lucky. The previous owner of _Amores,_ my bookshop, was a lovely, old lady that had no family at all and when she passed away almost two years ago, she left everything she had to me.” She smiles softly, still looking a little amazed by this, though he has no doubt she deserved it. He suspects Ruth, with her love of books, knowledge, and the classics, brought great joy to this lady's life at a time when she was probably rather lonely. “This had been her family home, where she'd grown up. She'd had a sister and a brother, but had outlived them both. Her brother had died in the war, and there were no nieces or nephews.”

“What was her name?” he asks softly.

“Laura Bortoletto.” She says it with love and reverence. “I think you would have liked her,” she adds, lifting her eyes to his with a smile. “A few years ago, I told her my story – not everything, but enough – and without telling me, she did some research into what was printed in the papers back then about Cotterdam and figured out my real name. From there, she found my mum and contacted her, inviting her here to see me.”

“Christ!”

“I know. It was her birthday present to me. She was such an amazing person. She taught herself several languages. I'm half convinced she was a spy in the war, but she never admitted it when I asked her. Maybe she was ashamed to have worked against the allies, or maybe she was telling the truth. I don't know and, I suppose, it doesn't matter now.” She shrugs and turns back to unpacking the shopping and putting it away.

He watches her for a moment in silence before saying, “Shall I just bring everything in from the car then?”

“Good plan,” she replies, turning to look at him again and smiling. He sees her eyes drop to his injured leg, but she doesn't say anything for which he's very grateful. The last thing he wants is to be treated like an invalid. He desperately wants her to see him as a man, whole and virile, someone worthy of a beautiful, special woman like her. He might not believe that himself, but it's important to him that _she_ does.

By the time he's carried all their supplies in one-handed, including all the things Ruth's packed in the boot, Ruth's put the groceries away, has made a pot of tea, and is busy moving things through to the back of the house where he assumes are the bedrooms.

“Where shall I put my suitcase?” he asks her as she walks back into the open plan living room and kitchen.

“The bedroom's through the door there,” she says. “So is the bathroom. Did you lock the car?”

“No,” he replies, crossing the room with his suitcase in tow, his heart beating fast as her words sink in and he wonders whether she misspoke or if there really is only one bedroom back there. “I didn't know where to find the keys.”

“Right,” she says, patting her pockets and frowning as she looks around her. “I'll find them. I've made a pot of tea when you're done unpacking.”

 _Unpacking._ He grins, suddenly feeling ridiculously happy.

He finds the bathroom first, which is very small with barely enough room for a shower. There's a small room across from it that could fit a single bed, maybe even a double at a squeeze, but it's been turned into a library with a comfy armchair and footstool, a throw and low table, and bookshelves full of hundreds of books. He takes a moment to peruse the titles, but most are in Italian, with a few in French, Spanish, German, English, Latin, and even some in Ancient Greek from the looks of things. He shakes his head in amazement and turns to leave, wondering if now is the time to give Ruth back his gift from long ago, the only thing beside her cats that he'd rescued from her house in London. It had been lying on her bedside table, waiting for her to pick up and read again, and he'd been unable to just leave it there, abandon it to Section X or Ruth's mother, never to be seen again. The thought that she'd liked his present enough to read it regularly, at bedtime no less, was almost as precious a gift to him as her kiss had been on that cold morning by the Thames. He likes to keep it with him – a reminder of her and all they'd been to each other.

He steps out of the room again, taking a couple more steps down the short corridor to open the last door and walk into a gorgeous room with large windows on both sides and a roof-window above the bed through which the sunlight is streaming in, casting an almost magical glow across the room, bouncing off the light yellow walls and lighting up the riot of colours on the bedspread that he'd carried in from the car just a few minutes ago and Ruth had wasted on time in placing here. He smiles, touched by this room and how much it speaks to him of Ruth, more so than any other part of the house so far – even the library. He suspects Ruth's kept the library more or less as Laura left it, in her memory, but has changed the rest to suit her own tastes, made it her own little splash of heaven, her home away from home. The only thing missing is a cat, he thinks with a fond smile as he remembers the two, old moggies he'd inherited from her which had shared his home for a while until they'd each passed away.

He lets his gaze roam about the room, wondering if Ruth really intends to share her bed with him, or if he's misunderstood her, scared of making a mistake that might cost him this precious chance that he's been given. She'd told him to unpack though and hasn't hesitated about any part of today, hasn't shied away from him, has encouraged him even and welcomed his kisses. Valiantly he tries not to imagine what might happen this evening if they retire to bed together. There are books on the right bedside table, he notes, which would make the left side his if he's right about Ruth's intentions, which he very much hopes that he is. He's never wanted anything, anyone, quite as much as he wants to be with Ruth tonight.

He shakes his head to clear it and sets about unpacking some things to distract himself from thoughts of Ruth and him in bed together. He wheels his bag over to the wardrobe and opens it to take out his washbag and Ruth's book, hesitating over his pyjamas and deciding not to risk being presumptuous this time – he will wait and see. So closing the lid of his suitcase and leaving _Amores_ on top of the pile of books on her bedside table with a satisfied little smile, he turns to go back to the bathroom with the washbag. There is another door though that catches his attention and which he determines to investigate, and behind it he finds an en suite, large and spacious with a jacuzzi and separate shower, that was clearly added onto the rest of the house at some point. He rather suspects that the bedroom had been added on too and that the original house only had the one small room that's now a library.

He sets his washbag down and takes the opportunity to use the loo, wash his hands, and brush his teeth before returning to the bedroom and then the living room in search of Ruth. She's curled up on the sofa, legs tucked beside her as she leans sideways on the cushions, eyes closed, a contented smile on her lips. He hesitates as he enters the room, loathed to disturb her yet unable to turn away. He can't quite believe this is real, that he's found her again and she's welcomed him into her home, and he finds himself feeling the need to pinch himself every few minutes, just to make sure he's awake.

“Did you find everything alright?” she asks, opening her eyes to look at him.

“Yes, thank you,” he replies, his voice gruff.

“Tea's ready and I made some sandwiches, seeing as it's almost lunchtime.” She smiles, sitting up and leaning forward to pour their tea. “One sugar for tea too?”

“I'm afraid so,” he answers, moving towards her and hesitating again, wondering if he should join her on the sofa or take one of the armchairs.

“Here you go.” She holds his drink out of him and that decides him. He sits down beside her, setting his cane aside before taking the cup from her, murmuring his thanks.

“What happened exactly?” she asks softly as she watches him stretch his left leg out and absently massage his knee. “If you don't mind me asking.”

“I was thrown a few yards, landed on my left side, fractured my hip, got buried in rubble, and was knocked unconscious. Apparently, one of the beams shielded me somewhat or it would have been worse. Lots of scrapes and bruises, cracked ribs, a concussion, some internal bleeding they had to staunch, and my left leg's thoroughly buggered up now, what with the hip and the knee injury from before,” he says matter of factly. “I've had extensive physiotherapy to get to where I can walk with support, but the doctors reckoned a break from it would do me good and suggested a holiday. To be honest, I'm not sure they think there's a lot more they can do for me now. Meg-” He stops himself abruptly.

She smiles. “It's alright, Harry. I'm glad you've not had to go through all that alone.”

He stares at her, awed by how wonderful, how remarkable a woman she is. “It's so good to see you again, Ruth. This is...” he tails off, shaking his head, trying and failing to find the words to express all that he feels in this moment.

“I know,” she murmurs, reaching over to gently squeeze his knee. Impulsively, she leans in and kisses his cheek before pulling back to smile at him and reach for a sandwich. “Come on,” she says. “Tuck in.”

“We're close to Tivoli here,” she says conversationally after they've each taken a few sips of their tea and finished their first sandwich. “It has hot springs. Maybe we could go tomorrow. It might help your leg.”

He smiles, eyes softening at her concern for him.

“What?” she asks with a frown.

“I've missed you, Ruth.”

“I've missed you too, Harry.” She smiles, gazing into his eyes for long moments before she drops her gaze to her cup, lifts it to her lips, drains is, and sets it aside on the coffee table. “Are you done with yours?” she asks, so he finishes up his tea too and allows her to take the cup from his hands. She sets it down beside her own and turns back to him, lifting her hand to his cheek, eyes lovingly tracing his face, his heart beating fast again with hope and love and longing. He leans in to kiss her, watching as a smile appears on her lips for a moment before his lips take hers in a sweet, soft kiss. She hums in pleasure, her fingers slipping behind his neck, tangling in his hair as she draws him closer. He's dreamt of this so many times, has longed for just such an opportunity to express what's in his heart that he finds so very hard to articulate. With Meg and most other women before her, his skill at this has come from his ego, a need to show them how good he is, a pride in his ability to satisfy. But with Ruth, it's his heart that's speaking through his lips and fingers. It's his heart that's urging him to be gentle, loving, adoring in his touch so she can feel its silent message.

“Harry,” she breathes between kisses, coming back for more, the heat rising between them as he follows where she leads, wanting nothing more than to give her everything she asks of him.

She loosens some buttons on his shirt with one hand, her other slipping down his neck into his collar and beyond, fingers stroking his shoulder and back, his skin tingling at her touch, igniting his passion and making him bolder, his own hands seeking out her warm skin, slipping below her top to run up her back as he draws her closer. Her nails scrape his back and he groans, tongue surging forward to invade her mouth, hand moving round her side to cup her breast, her whimper of pleasure encouraging him to give more. He wants to give her everything he has, make her feel loved, satisfy her every need. He wants her to understand just how much she means to him.

They break apart for air, both breathless, her back arching as he kneads her breast and she throws her head back, moaning his name again. He bites her chin playfully, then sucks on the skin of her neck, her pants and gasps of pleasure slowly snapping the threads of his self-control, but she's sitting on his left and, as much as he wants to, he knows he can't put his weight on his injured hip and follow her down to the sofa.

“Ruth,” he murmurs, his voice gravelly with arousal. “I can't-” He grimaces as an arrow of pain shoots through his hip, leaving him breathless.

She sits up, eyes focusing on his with concern. “God, I'm sorry, Harry. Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he assures her. “Sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Don't apologise. I'm the one who's sorry,” she says and lifts her hand to his cheek, then reaches up to softly kiss his lips. “I'll be more careful.”

“Just sit on my right and we'll be fine,” he murmurs before kissing her again, moving his hands, that have slipped down to her waist, and stroking her stomach with his fingertips. She's exquisite and he can't seem to stop touching her.

She trembles and sighs, turning towards him and lifting her left leg, to move over to his other side he thinks, but she surprises him when she sits on his lap instead, straddling him.

“You're so lovely, Ruth,” he whispers gruffly. “I don't know how you can still want...” He tails off, embarrassed by his insecurity, leaning forward to kiss her again, but she avoids his lips this time, leaning back, out of his reach, and cupping his cheeks to steady his head as she gazes into his eyes.

“Because you're remarkable and the only man I've ever met who captivates me, who astounds me and intrigues me and challenges me, who believes in me, who supports me and knows me, and who loves me, Harry _–_ good and bad, light and dark, sane and slightly bonkers.” Her thumbs stroke his cheekbones as she smiles down at him while he valiantly tries to keep the tears from his eyes. Then she smiles impishly and murmurs, “And because I gave up my life for you, Harry Pearce, and, now that I've found you again, I want my reward.” She kisses him once, softly, before she pulls back to whisper, “ _You're_ my reward, Harry _,”_ and plunging in for more.

She's passionate, her lips sucking on his own, tongue delving into his mouth, fingers raking through his sparse hair, then moving down his neck to his chest when she unbuttons the rest of his shirt buttons while her hips roll against him, brushing his growing erection with increasing insistence as he responds to the onslaught of her passion, all his doubts gone and his confidence returning. He's quite good at this and he wants nothing more than to love her and give her pleasure.

He lifts her top, palms gliding up her back, pausing to release her bra clasp and free her all at once, tossing it all aside as his eyes drop to her chest and the exquisite fullness of her breasts. He cups them gently, drawing them together, and burying his face between them, inhaling deeply – her scent sweet and subtle, a soothing balm on his battered heart. She's here; she wants him; she's giving herself to him – finally! So many months, so many years he's waited for this, gazing at her across the Grid, longing for the courage, the opportunity to be with her away from that place, to hold her and love her in the still of the night, to kiss her and be with her on a quiet Sunday morning. He had known, when he'd finally asked her out, that she'd wanted him too, as he had known the risk they were taking in being together. He'd known what would happen a long time before Cotterdam and Mace, and he had held himself back for exactly that reason – for fear of losing her, of her life being destroyed to get to him, of them being torn asunder in the game of espionage that they played. But then Juliet had spoken to him about it, had urged him to grasp the opportunity given to him, and he'd given in, knowing that if Juliet had seen through his façade, then others will have seen it too, so what was the point of denying himself? He'd come so close to having it all, but Ruth's fear and insecurity had stolen precious time from them, time that would have afforded him the opportunity to do his very best to protect her. So many years, so much time wasted, but he's determined to make up for it now.

He pulls back to watch her face as he strokes her skin with thumb and fingers, seeking out the rhythm, the pressure that gives her the most pleasure. “Harder,” she murmurs, eyes closed, head tilted back. “Right here,” she adds and moves her hand up to join his, guiding him to the right spot, teaching him what she likes.

She shivers and moans when he gets it right, gasping, “Oh, yes. Like that. Don't stop... Harry,” and rolling her hips against him again. She's exquisite, so responsive and beautiful, the creamy white skin of her breasts standing out against the darker, tanned skin around them, her dusky nipples calling to him. He leans in to press soft kisses against her skin, running his tongue under each nipple, then across it, her gasps and whimpers music to his ears, the salty taste of her skin exquisite.

Her fingers have slipped into his hair again and are pulling him closer, almost smothering him against her breast as he opens his mouth and closes his lips around one rose peak, the shudder that runs through her and deep moan of pleasure arousing him to new heights. How many times has he wondered what noises she'll make, what she'll taste like, smell like when magnificently aroused like this?

Her hips move faster, jerking against him, rubbing against his rigid cock with increasing insistence until he's so near the edge that he can't handle it any more. “Bed?” he suggests, lifting his head to look at her.

Her eyes are dark, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed, breath rugged, and all she seems to be able to manage is a small nod of agreement. She takes a few shaky breaths before she smiles impishly at him. “Wow, Harry,” she says. “Why didn't you tell me you could do that before?”

He smiles but he's not sure it masks the surge of sadness and regret that wells up at her words. “I suppose, I _hoped_ , I'd get the opportunity to show you.”

She smiles softly, lifting her hands to cup his face again, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs, gazing at him with love. He doesn't need to say more. She understands him. She's Ruth. “You are. You will,” she murmurs and kisses him before she climbs carefully off his lap, extending her hand to help him up and handing him his cane. Then, still holding his right hand in hers, she leads the way to her bedroom.

They reach the foot of the bed and turn towards each other, their eyes meeting and holding, lips lifting in a smile. “You're still wearing your shirt,” she murmurs. “Doesn't seem fair, that.” And she releases his hand, taking a step closer to reach up and push his shirt off his shoulders to the floor. Her eyes dart over his chest, taking in the myriad of scars that mar his skin, the imperfections of his almost sixty-year-old body, but he sees nothing but love and desire in her gaze. “Is this from Tom?” she asks, reaching up to run her fingers over the scar on his left shoulder.

“Yes,” he replies, voice gruff with emotion.

She smiles with satisfaction, perhaps relieved to find at least one mark from a time when they were together. “You've suffered so much pain, Harry,” she says, her gaze turning sad as her eyes lift to his.

He steps closer, lifting his free hand to cup her cheek, his other still gripping his cane. “None of this has been as bad as losing you, Ruth, in the way that I did,” he whispers. “I haven't been able to let you go, to forget you or-”

“Something wonderful,” she murmurs, gazing up at him with eyes that he's sure can see right through him to his very soul.

He smiles. “The hope of finding you again is all that's kept me going lately,” he confesses.

She grins, dimples creasing her cheeks. “And now that you have, what are you going to do with me, Harry?”

“Love you,” he replies, voice husky and warm, “in any way I can, in any way you want me to.”

She hums, pressing herself against him as her arms snake up, over his shoulders and she stretches up to kiss him softly, murmuring, “I like the sound of that,” against his lips.

He lets go of his cane and wraps both arms around her, drawing her flush against him as he takes her lips in a searing kiss, the last threads of his self-control snapping, unleashing the passion he's denied for so long, his hunger and love for her threatening to consume them both as his cane clutters to the floor.

They come up for air and plunge in again – and again, and again – hands busy mapping the contours of each other's body, discovering the secrets of what gives pleasure and what renders the other putty in their arms, stopping only when they almost lose their balance and topple onto the bed. He's too old and battered for that, so he steadies her with his hands and takes a small step back, breathing hard and gazing hungrily down at her. “Perhaps we should-,” he begins.

“Get in bed,” she finishes for him. “Good idea.”

Quick as a flash, she picks up his cane and hands it to him before she moves to her side of the bed and pulls back the covers revealing crisp, cream sheets. “Come on,” she says, and turns, pulling down her capris, dropping them on the floor beside the bed, kneeling on it, and making her way across it clad in nothing but her white, cotton underwear, looking more real, more desirable than any lace or garter could achieve, taking his breath away. He's barely moved at all when she reaches him, her hands gliding down the front of him to the waistband of his trousers where she unbuckles his belt and releases the button and zip, eyes on his the entire time, gaze as hungry as his own.

“Ruth,” he murmurs with longing, but she just smiles and drops her gaze to his chest, kissing him right over his heart, then trailing her lips over to one nipple as her hands slip under the elastic of his underwear, cupping his arse, caressing it, kneading it, scraping her nails across it, and moving her hands round to his hips, slowly pushing his trousers and underwear down together while her tongue licks his nipple making him groan and shiver with pleasure. He slips his hands into her hair, cradling her head as she continues to suck and lick his skin, magically finding all the spots that make him tremble and render him speechless and unsteady on his feet. It's not until she presses a tender kiss on the tip of his cock, however, that he almost collapses entirely.

“Ruth, I need,” he manages to choke out, steadying himself with his hands on her shoulders, breathing rugged and laboured, “to sit. I'm sorry,” he apologises, hating to admit his weakness, but ever since Sasha Gavrik stabbed him, he's found it harder to catch his breath in certain circumstances – this being top of the list.

“Don't apologise,” she chastises him as she sits back, watching him turn and carefully lower himself to the bed. Then before he can say or do anything more, she's out of bed and kneeling at his feet, removing his shoes and socks before tugging off his trousers and trunks. He wants to protest, say he can do it himself, but by the time he's got his breath back, she's done, smiling as she stands and gazes down at him.

“Come here,” he says instead, drawing her closer with his hands on her hips, pressing his lips against her abdomen, his hands slipping round to her buttocks as he takes his time to caress and suck her skin, her hums and moans of pleasure spurring him on. Slowly he pulls down her knickers, trailing his lips along her hip bone to the edge of her neatly trimmed, pubic hair, inhaling the heady scent of her arousal, his hands abandoning her underwear near her knees and trailing up the inside of her thighs, making her tremble. She moans his name, steadying herself by gripping his shoulders as she kicks her knickers off. She attempts to kneel on the bed, but he doesn't let her, not before he's had a chance to taste her, his hands cupping her gorgeous arse and drawing her towards his face, lifting her onto her toes as his tongue darts out to lick her.

She moans, her legs trembling, body curving towards him, her taste exploding on his tongue, her scent intoxicating. “Harry, I can't,” she gasps and he feels her move away from him, her legs folding, but he's not ready to stop just yet.

“Not yet,” he says, lowering his body to the bed and drawing her with him, his hands pulling her hips towards him until she's shuffling along the bed above him on her hands and knees. “Let me taste you properly. Sit on my face,” he orders, voice gruff with arousal, with the longing to continue what he started. She whimpers and trembles, panting and moaning as he guides her heat to his mouth, her head hanging down over the bed as she supports herself on her hands, elbows locked and knees bent and spread wide. He watches her face, every nuance of her expression as he runs his tongue over her folds, around her clit, massaging the sensitive nub with tongue and lips, slipping his thick fingers inside her, his heart pounding in his chest, expanding at the sight of her pleasure, his cock bobbing up and down with excitement as she nears her peak, her low, guttural moans of pleasure making his blood boil and his heart soar. He's imagined doing this so many times, has dreamt of it at night, but the reality of it is so much _more_ than any fantasy has ever been. He just can't get enough of her, wants to do this all day, all night long.

She presses herself harder against him all but smothering him as her legs tremble and she holds her breath, a shiver running through her, her inside walls beginning to clamp around his fingers, a gasp and then she breaks, a wail of pleasure escaping her lungs as her legs give way and she collapses onto him. He really can't breathe now, so he uses his free hand to guide her to her left side so he can follow her over, keeping his fingers inside her and his face between her legs, resting his head on her thigh, his eyes taking in her unique shape, the heart-stopping beauty of her. He loves this and he wants to do it again – over and over again. He's already decided he wants nothing more than to spend the rest of the day in bed with her, the rest of his life giving her pleasure like this as many times as she'll let him.

Her fingers slide through his hair, and when he tilts his head back, he finds her smiling down at him. “Harry,” she breathes, her eyes filling with tears of joy or gratitude, maybe both, he's not quite sure. Just so long as it's not sorrow, he finds himself thinking as he smiles up at her and then press his lips against the hood of her clit and inhales deeply once more. _God, but she smells divine._

Slowly he curls his fingers inside her, his tongue darting out to taste her again, her moan of pleasure making him hum and long for more. She sighs and breathes his name again, fingers tightening their grip on his head and pulling him closer and he takes this as permission to continue, building her up again with long steady strokes of his tongue and fingers. He wishes that he'd thought to shave earlier, worried that she'll be sore from the scrape of his stubble on her sensitive skin, but the truth is he hadn't expected her to drag him off to her bed so soon after their reunion. He'd even had doubts about tonight, whether she'd be after just a cuddle and a few kisses, but no more. He truly has no idea what her life is like here, and though his desire for her, his longing and love have pushed the nagging questions aside for a while, he's truly terrified of the answers she might give him were he to ask.

She gasps, teetering on the edge of the precipice again, his fingers already able to read the approach of her climax, so he backs off, pressing his lips softly against her clit, stilling his fingers inside her, wanting to make this climax even more powerful than the one before, desperate to show her, to love her, and to annihilate any competition he might have from other lovers. She whimpers in protest, attempting to roll her hips and pulling his head closer, making him chuckle.

“Harry,” she complains.

“Patience, my love,” he replies and presses his lips against her again. “It'll be better this way.”

She sighs and he feels her relax, giving herself over to him and his desire to please her, and he can't help but feel moved by the experience, the realisation that she's trusting him completely.

He shifts on the bed so he can see her face more clearly, wanting to watch her as he gives her pleasure, the sight of her smile and her soft, gentle gaze making his heart pound. He kisses her again and begins to move his fingers, watching as her eyes flutter with pleasure and body trembles with need, her moan and the reverence in her gaze setting his soul on fire. He builds her up higher this time before he stops and starts again, time after time, and when her climax finally comes, it's as powerful as he'd hoped it would be. Her whole body shakes, her cries of pleasure filling the room, her legs clamping around his head as her insides clutch at his fingers, throbbing and quivering around him, her clit pulsing under his tongue as he laps at it and curls his fingers inside her. _God, but I love this woman_ , he thinks as the waves of her pleasure brake over them and he gets lost in the surf, the rolling, raw power of her, her majestic splendour.

When finally the energy of her climax dissipates around them, he feels her curl into a ball, her body still trembling as she whispers his name and he realises that she's crying. He draws back with concern, slowly slipping his fingers from inside her as he runs his left hand up her side, arching his back away from her to scoot up the bed, and feeling relieved when she shimmies down to meet him, curling into his arms, her face pressed into his chest as she clings to him and continues to weep. He kisses her hair softly, stroking her back with his hands as he murmurs sweet nothings in her ear, all the while worried that he's hurt her somehow, even though he's almost certain that's not true and that her tears are a result of the profoundly moving experience they've just shared.

She doesn't take long to quieten in his arms, and as he continues to hold her close, relishing this opportunity given to him, he realises that she's fallen asleep. He smiles, kissing the top of her head again and reaching gingerly up to grab a pillow, resting his head on it and closing his eyes, a deep contentment settling over him like a blanket, shielding him, warming him through after the long, cold months of their separation.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Final chapter of this fic. Thank you all for reading and a special thanks to those who've left comments or kudos. You make my day. Cheers, S.C.

He wakes when she does, coming round the moment she stirs and opening his eyes to find her watching him with warm, sleepy eyes. “Hi,” she whispers.

“Hello,” he smiles, lifting his left hand to stroke a strand of her hair out of her face.

“Sorry I feel asleep on you.” She blushes and drops her gaze, warming his heart. “I didn't sleep well last night.”

“It's alright, Ruth,” he replies, hoping that her sleepless night had something to do with seeing him again, rather than anything to do with another man. “If we're going to spend all day in bed, we're going to need some naps... or I am, at any rate.”

She smiles. “All day?” she questions, lifting herself onto her left forearm and leaning over him.

“Mmmm,” he hums, leaning back a little and turning his head to look at her. “That is, if you'd like to, of course.”

“Oh I'd like to, Harry,” she murmurs, dipping her face towards his. “I'd like to very much.” And she kisses him, slowly, sensually, licking his lips, taking his lower lip between her teeth, releasing it, and coming back for more. “Thank you,” she whispers between kisses. “That was incredible. I've never felt anything like it before. You touch me so deeply, Harry.” Her eyes glisten with tears as she lifts her head to gaze at him. “I can't believe... all this time...” She shakes her head, seemingly lost for words.

“Let me do it again,” he answers, his mouth already watering at the prospect of tasting her again, his body responding to the memory of her flushed skin and swollen sex, her quivering heat and trembling muscles, her face in ecstasy. His cock bobs up and down, clamouring for attention too, but he knows that, once he's spent, it'll take him some time to recover and he's determined to prolong his own excitement and anticipation by giving her pleasure as many times as he can before giving in to his need for release. He's waited so long for this that he wants it to be spectacular for her, and he knows he can wait a while yet – it's not as if he's been celibate all these years after all. In fact, it's only been three days.

She smiles and shakes her head at him. “It's my turn now,” she murmurs, her hands moving across his skin, fingers caressing, nails scraping his back, his left buttock, pulling him closer as she kisses him and pushes one of her legs between his, than slipping round his hip, caressing his thighs, his balls, wrapping around his shaft, moving expertly along his length and making him moan as he hardens even further in her hand.

“Ruth,” he groans, when she releases his lips and moves lower, sucking his jaw, his neck, laving his nipples with her tongue again and making him tremble, his mind blissfully blank save for the arrows of pleasure shooting through his body, the throbbing ache in his cock and balls. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realises that he'll not last long at all at this rate, but when he manages to find his voice and whisper, “This'll be over in a few seconds if you continue like this, Ruth,” she merely lifts her head to smile triumphantly up at him.

“Oh, I think I can tease you as well as you can me, Harry.”

He almost comes there and then at those words – the confidence and the promise behind them – but as she continues to trail kisses down his abdomen, he rallies, realising that if he wants her to slow down or stop altogether, he's going to have to distract her. So he growls and rolls onto his back, using his right leg to shimmy down the bed and turn himself and his arms to steady her and guide her to him, and though she seems a little surprised initially, she doesn't object when she realises what he's doing, her moan of pleasure as he abruptly thrusts three fingers inside her wet heat telling him she's more than ready for it. He pulls her hips down to his mouth, lapping and sucking on her clit as he curls and thrusts his fingers inside her, trying to find an angle that works for him with her positioned this way round on top of him, painfully aroused by her intoxicating scent, the warmth and softness of her heat, the mewls and whimpers that escape her as he momentarily distracts her from her exploration of him, her grip on his cock going slack as she cries out in pleasure, resting her forehead against his right hip, her left cheek brushing against him as she moans in torturous delight.

It doesn't take her long, however, to recover enough to resume her earlier massage of his shaft and soon he finds that _he's_ the one getting distracted by the feel of her lips on the tip of his cock, kissing him, her tongue darting out to taste him, warm and wet against his swollen head, a shiver of delight and anticipation coursing through him. He holds his breath, silently willing her to open her mouth and let him in, and she doesn't disappoint, her hot breath warning him of what is to come, but not preparing him for the exquisite pleasure, the utter bliss to be found there, the hot, wet, heavenly sensation of her lips closing around him, sucking on him, tongue rubbing, kneading his head, and he knows that if he'd let her continue as before and she'd been facing the other way, with her tongue against the most sensitive part of him, he'd have been unable to stop himself from spilling right there and then. As it is, he has trouble taking his next breath while she moves her hands and mouth in prefect harmony, long, slow strokes that are driving him mad with want of her. His hips jerk up towards her of their own accord, and he feels her quickly lift her head a little, parting the mists of his desire and spurring him into action to regain the upper hand.

With renewed urgency, he goes down on her, sucking, licking, nipping and thrusting until he feels her release him to catch her breath, her moans and whimpers, the tightening of her core muscles telling him she's near and before much longer he has her moaning and trembling as her walls contract and she tumbles over, collapsing on top of him. He smiles in satisfaction, lifting his head to softly kiss her clit then drawing back, pulling his fingers out and pushing them in again, hearing her moan as he watches her heat close around them, and he knows that he can wait no more. He needs to replace his fingers with his cock, watch as her sex swallows his, feel her muscles ripple around him, welcoming him, making him whole again as their bodies join together for the very first time.

Gently, he rolls her off him and sits up, watching with some amusement and much satisfaction as she rolls all the way over and comes to rest on her stomach, utterly spent and sated, a whimper of protest escaping her lips. He can use that, he thinks, running his fingers softly down her spine and making her moan and shiver. Then he moves down to the edge of the bed, grabs his cane and gets up, walking around it until he's standing by her feet. He sets aside his cane against the bedside table and leans over, grasping her ankles and pulling until her knees are near the edge of the bed, then reaching for her gorgeous arse. “Come on, Ruth,” he encourages as he pulls gently on her hips. “Kneel for me, love.”

She sighs and attempts to do as he asks, whimpering a little as she moves and almost giving up with a plaintive, “I can't.”

“Yes, you can,” he replies encouragingly, tugging on her hips as much as he dares without risking losing his balance. “Please, Ruth. I need you. Now.”

She sighs at that and turns her head to look at him, smiling lazily up at him, then letting her eyes travel down to his cock – rigid, head swollen and dark and aching for her. “I like him,” she murmurs. “He's beautiful. So hot and hard and thick. I want him inside me.”

He groans, closing his eyes to regain control, desperately trying to think of something, _anything_ , less erotic that a sated Ruth, lying wanton on the bed, telling him she wants him.

When he feels her buttocks pressing against his groin, he gasps, eyes flying open to find her on hands and knees before him, grinning at him as she rubs herself against him. “Come on, Harry,” she says. “What are you waiting for?”

“Jesus, Ruth! You'll be the death of me,” he growls, grasping her swaying arse to steady her as he brings his cock down to meet it, gliding his head along her folds to spread her wetness before easing himself into her. He watches with barely controlled lust as he disappears inside her, her moan of pleasure as he slowly moves deeper arousing him even more, the way she trembles and collapses to the bed, arse in the air while he pushes further and further in until _finally_ he slides home, pressing his legs and hips against her bum, moving him almost to tears. She's such a perfect fit, snug and just right, like they were made for each other, that he could cry, finding himself here after everything they've been through.

He stills, taking deep breaths to steady himself, sure that the slightest movement from either of them will send him over the edge, and he doesn't want that. He wants to enjoy this for as long as humanly possible. She squeezes her muscles around him, hugging his shaft and making him moan with the exquisite, torturous pleasure of it.

“You're breathtaking, Ruth,” he murmurs as he gazes down at her supple, graceful body, her wide hips and soft bottom, the tanned, healthy glow of her skin, her tousled, chestnut curls spread across the sheet, beautiful eyes turned to gaze up at him and gorgeous lips, smiling. He wants to kiss her, but he can't in this position and suddenly he finds that he doesn't want her like this any more. He wants to have her facing him, so he can see her, gaze into her eyes, make love to her from his soul as he's always wanted to. This is wrong, too hard, too impersonal for their very first time together. He wants more than this. So much more.

He pulls out, making her whimper and having to clamp his own mouth shut to stop a similar sound from escaping him, but when he turns away from her and lowers himself to the bed beside her, she sits up and gives him a puzzled frown. “Harry?” she questions. “What's wrong?”

“I want to see you,” he murmurs, turning his head to look at her. “I want to make love to you, not...” he tails off, unsure how to explain without sounding crass.

But this is Ruth and she immediately understands him, smiling softly at him, eyes filling with love. “How do we do that then?” she asks. “With your hip,” she clarifies.

He sighs and rubs his face with his hands, feeling so frustrated that he can't just roll on top of her and take her to heaven and back as he so desperately wants to. He hates his stupid hip and stupid knee, hates that he's an invalid now, that he'll never be match-fit again, will never be able to keep up with her – his Ruth, young and fit and beautiful. How long will she put up with him, he wonders bleakly.

“Harry,” she whispers, reaching her hand up to run her fingers through his hair, stroking his neck and shoulders. “Don't do that,” she pleads. “It's okay.”

“It's not okay, Ruth,” he protests, dropping his hands from his face and turning to look at her. “I have waited so _long_ for this, to show you how _much..._ to make love to you, and now I'm a bloody invalid and I can't even-”

“You can,” she interrupts forcefully. “You're no less of a man because of your injuries, Harry. Not to me. I already told you – you're remarkable and wonderful and... I love you.” She stares at him, his heart lifting, beating more powerfully on hearing those words, his confidence returning. Ruth loves him – still. He lifts his hand to cup her cheek, smiling softly at her as she presses into his touch, eyes alight and so beautiful.

“I love you too,” he murmurs gruffly, drawing her to him for a soft kiss.

She hums, closing her eyes as her lips move against his, then opening them again to look at him as she asks, “If I straddle you, will that work?”

“Yes.” His voice is gravelly now from emotion and lust.

“Good,” she murmurs and kisses him. “I like to be on top.”

He groans, drawing her to him as she turns and kneels over him, sitting in his lap, facing him.

“I want you to know,” she says softly, her hands cupping his face, thumbs stroking his cheeks, fingers running through his hair as she gazes deeply into his eyes, “that you're the only man I've ever brought here. I've had lovers, relationships, I'm... but this is my refuge and you're the only-”

He kisses her fiercely, trying to blot out the thought of her with another man, desperate to show her how much better he is, _they_ are together, his hands dropping to her upper thighs to pull her closer, drawing her heat near his rigid cock, wanting her now more than ever. He thrust up between their bodies, her moan of pleasure as he grazes her clit making him growl as their tongues swirl together, her passion rising with his own, fingers threading through his hair, hands pulling him closer. He does it again, rubbing himself repeatedly against her, stopping her from lifting herself over him with is hands on her thighs, wanting to watch her climb another peak before he joins her.

“Harry,” she protests, pulling her mouth from his for air and moaning as he tilts his pelvis once more. “I want-” she gasps, her hands grasping his shoulders as he trails kisses down her neck, sucking her skin, pushing her ever closer to the edge. “Please,” she whispers as a shiver runs through her, eyes focusing on his for a moment, “I want-” She groans as he continues unrelenting, her head rolling forward to his shoulder, then up again as she struggles for control. “Together,” she murmurs, her hands gripping his shoulders tightly as if to stop herself from flying apart, or perhaps to get his attention.

“Once more,” he pants, thrusting up again, ignoring the twinge from his hip, his hands keeping her close, trapped against him so there is no escape from the onslaught of his passion for her, “then together.”

She whimpers, forehead dropping to his shoulder, nails digging into his skin as she begins to tremble. “Harry,” she breathes and gasps. “Oh fuck.” And then she comes, a long drawn out moan of pleasure escaping her as she tumbles over, every muscle in her body tensing and then relaxing as she shudders in bliss, her body going limp in his arms.

He smiles in satisfaction, kissing the side of her face before he wraps his arms around her, cradling her close, keeping her in his embrace as she sighs in bliss. He feels very pleased with himself to have given her so much pleasure already, even if he's finding it virtually impossible now to calm his own body, his patience and self-control at their limits while he waits for her to recover, the heat of her abdomen pressing against him, a promise of what's to come, the memory of slipping inside her stubbornly refusing to be pushed aside, no matter how much he struggles.

“Ruth,” he murmurs, voice gravelly with arousal and longing. “I need...” He pauses and clears his throat, his voice in danger of breaking or failing him altogether. “I need you. Please, can we...?”

She hums, staying still for a moment more before she turns her head and presses her lips softly against his neck, then lifting her head to look at him. “We most definitely can,” she replies and kisses him. Then she slowly eases herself off him, rising onto her knees and reaching for him, grasping him gently in her hand as she guides him to her entrance, and he can't contain the groan of pleasure that escapes him as slowly she lowers herself onto him, her vaginal walls still fluttering from her climax, her moan of pleasure as deep as his own.

“Christ!” he gasps, barely hanging on. “Ruth, I-” but she doesn't let him finish, grasping his head with her hands and kissing him like there's no tomorrow, her over-sensitive flesh sparking and rippling around him as she clamps and releases her inner walls. He groans into her mouth, cupping her arse, trying to lift her, desperate now for release.

She lifts her head, gaze locking with his as her hands move to his shoulders and she begins to ride him, both of them panting and grunting with pleasure, her eyelids fluttering closed every time she slides down on him, his hands pulling her closer as he tilts his pelvis to meet her, sweat coating his skin from the exertion and the effort of holding himself together as long as he possibly can, the slap of flesh on flesh only adding to his arousal.

“Ruth,” he gasps, knowing he can't last long now, willing her to understand and moving his right hand round to reach between them, his thumb seeking the bundle of nerves that he's spent so much time loving today, wanting more than anything to take her with him.

“Oh God,” she moans, eyes closing, body trembling with the rising tide of pleasure, her leg muscles quivering, their movement no longer smooth but erratic, jerky as she begins to lose control. She groans and lifts her body again just as his thumb finally finds its target, brushing her clit and making her cry out as she begins to unravel, slamming down on him hard, the softness of her, the heat of her, the pulsating, shuddering tremors running through her core so seductive, so irresistible that he succumbs with a long, guttural groan as his cock swells to near bursting and he gushes into her welcoming heat in hot, thick spurts.

For a moment, he can hear and see nothing, the roar in his ears deafening, the bright light behind his eyelids blinding, his body trembling with the effort of staying upright, the tightness in his chest alarming him, making his heart pound even faster as he gasps for breath, convinced for a moment that he's finally reached the end of the road. But then the pressure eases, his senses recover, and he can feel her tremble and hear her moan, her vaginal walls still rippling around his softening cock, the pulsing of her inner walls expelling him despite his desire to stay inside her.

His chest heaves as he sucks air back into his lungs, taking deep rugged breaths, his heart still racing, the raw energy, the electricity they've created still sparking throughout his body. She's slumped against him, face buried in his neck, arms wrapped around him, humming in pleasure as he runs his left hand down her back, smiling. He lifts his right hand, gently moving her hair aside so he can press his lips against her neck, threading his fingers through her hair, gently massaging the back of her head, earning him another moan of pleasure.

“Ruth,” he murmurs, pressing his lips against her shoulder, heart overflowing with joy, his whole body vibrating with contentment, every pain gone, every ache, every twinge, every torment. He hasn't felt this good in such a very long time, so loved, so happy, so peaceful.

He feels her chest expand as she breathes in deeply, expelling the air in a deep sigh of bliss. Then her lips press against his neck once and she lifts her head to look at him, her gaze warm and sated. She smiles, her hand rising to his cheek, eyes lovingly tracing his features. “Another nap, I think,” she mumbles.

He chuckles, drawing her in for a soft kiss, then allowing her to slip off his lap and onto the bed, watching as she staggers across to the others side on her hands and knees and collapses with her face on the pillow. He smiles, turning and lifting his legs onto the bed before he reaches for the top sheet to cover them and lies down beside her, rolling onto his right side to face her and pulling the covers over her. Her face is turned towards him, her tousled hair covering most of it, her eyes already closed, so he reaches for her right hand, wrapping it in both his own as he raises it to his lips, kissing her knuckles. She hums, but doesn't move, so he smiles before closing his eyes, a sigh escaping him as he allows himself to relax, feeling the warm, happy tingling running through his body, the heaviness in his muscles, the blissful satisfaction and fatigue, and quickly drifting off to sleep.

When he wakes, Ruth is no longer lying beside him and the light coming in from the windows tells him it's probably early afternoon already. He signs and rolls onto his back, lifting his arms over his head to stretch his body, feeling more relaxed and sated than he has in such a long time that he honestly doesn't remember the last time he's felt this good.

Carefully, he sits up, swinging his legs out of bed and reaching for his cane that's still resting against Ruth's bedside table. He slept on her side of the bed, he realises, but she didn't seem to mind about that, he recalls with a satisfied smile. _Amores_ is still on top of the pile of books beside him and he wonders when she'll spot it and say something about it. He rather suspects it might be after his gone if they continue as they started in bed together. His smile turns into a smirk for a moment before the thought of leaving her wipes it from his face altogether, a frown replacing it as he considers the possibility that Ruth might not want him here long. He needs to ask her now, he decides, needs to know their future. She holds all the cards – he'll do anything to be with her.

Gingerly, he gets up, hesitating for a moment as he considers if he should get dressed, regretting that he didn't bring a robe with him or nick one from his hotel room. Maybe just his shirt and trunks, he decides, but first things first – he really needs to empty his bladder. He makes his way to the en suite, knocking gently on the door when he finds it closed, just to make sure Ruth isn't in there.

“Come in,” she calls, surprising him – he'd thought she'd be up and about the house, or relaxing in the living room or library.

Carefully, he eases the door open, peering in to find her lying in the jacuzzi, submerged up to her chin in water. “Coming to join me?” she says, smiling.

“I'd love to,” he replies, “I'll just...” and he nods back towards the bedroom, thinking to use the other bathroom before joining her.

She smiles and nods, leaning her head back again and closing her eyes, so he slips back out of the room and returns again shortly, carrying the plate of sandwiches Ruth made earlier – he doesn't know about her, but he's famished.

“Hungry, are we?” she asks, her eyes sparkling at him.

“Starving,” he replies, moving forward and setting the plate down on the ledge around the jacuzzi.

She's submerged up to her chin, the jets of water allowing him only glimpses of her beautiful body below the surface, but she soon rectifies that as she lifts herself up a bit to reach for a sandwich, exposing her shoulders and the top of her breasts to his eager gaze. He's naked, of course, and feeling somewhat self-conscious as he stands before her, leaning on his cane, debating whether to join her.

“Come on, Harry, it's lovely,” she encourages him when she sees him hesitate, speaking round a mouthful of sandwich.

“I'm wondering whether I'll be able to get out again once I'm in,” he replies, giving her a wry look to mask his feelings of inadequacy. Normally he can lift himself out of the tub by grasping both sides of it, but this one is wide enough for two and he knows he'll not be able to do that.

“I'll help you,” she says, matter of factly, then turns towards him, setting aside her sandwich, sitting up, then kneeling, water dripping down her gorgeous body, taking his breath away as he watches her lean against the side of the bath and stretch up towards him, her intention and silent invitation clear. He doesn't hesitate to lean forward and meet her lips with his own. He still can't believe his luck and has to resist the urge to pinch himself again. She hums and reaches her hands up to run them through the hair at the nape of his neck, dampening it, so he takes that as permission to reach for her too with his right hand, starting at her waist, then moving upwards, stroking her back and side before boldly reaching for her breast. She moans in pleasure, pulling him closer and that decides him. Who cares if he gets stuck in the bath and loses his dignity as he struggles to get out again if holding, touching, kissing Ruth is the reward?

They break apart a little breathless, her eyes dark, lips smiling in satisfaction as he gently cups her cheek before turning to sit on the edge of the tub and carefully swing his legs in, using his cane for support and Ruth's shoulder when she moves over to help him. Once he's in with as small a splash as possible, she takes his cane and sets it aside in the corner, resting it against the bath and turning towards him as he lies back, closing his eyes in appreciation of the heat of the water and the massaging action of the jets against his tired muscles. He could get used to this.

He feels her fiddle with something by his feet and, when he opens his eyes, he finds her letting out some of the water. “We'll flood the bathroom if we're not careful,” she explains with a wicked little smile, telling him in no uncertain terms that that's exactly what she plans to do one of these days with him.

He chuckles, unable to believe his luck yet again – that Ruth should want him, that she should be so wonderful, such a confident, exciting lover, so mischievous and happy, alive with joy and passion. He watches as she closes the drain again and leans over him, her hands on either side of him as she moves her body over his, floating above him.

“You know, maybe,” she murmurs, eyes dancing with mischief, “I'll not help you out after all. Maybe, I'll keep you trapped in here – a sexy play thing, a sex slave to satisfy my every need.”

He laughs – he can't help himself – and gazes up at her adoringly. “You do know how to boost a man's ego, Ruth.”

“And you know how to please a woman,” she counters, grinning at him.

He smiles, then grasping his courage with both hands, he adds, “You're the only woman I've ever wanted to please, Ruth.”

She tilts her head to the side at that, her eyes softening, losing their mischief. “I doubt that, Harry. We've only known each other a few years.”

“But in all those years, I've never made love without you,” he says, remembering the words from the song, his voice gruff with emotion, a mixture of love and longing, terror and hope.

She doesn't reply, just blinks her eyes slowly at him, a small smile lifting the corner of her mouth, and he has no clue what she's thinking.

“Ruth?” he questions, heart in his mouth, but she just smiles again and leans forward to softly kiss his lips before turning to the side, sliding off him and lying down beside him, grabbing the remainder of her sandwich and taking another bite. “They're not as good as they were when I first made them,” she comments.

He doesn't know what to do or think, his heart still beating double-time as his doubts rear their ugly heads and he swallows hard. He's always suspected that he's loved her more than she ever loved him. Deep down he always knew, was terrified this might happen.

He turns and picks up a sandwich with his right hand, taking a big bite to give himself something to do, his face a mask of control, but he forgets how many times she's seen him hide behind that mask and how adept she is at reading him.

“Harry?” she says, watching him with those beautiful, soulful eyes of hers as he turns to look at her, swallowing. “Neither have I,” she says earnestly, lips smiling softly. “It's always been you.”

The breath he hadn't realised he was holding escapes in a rush and he has to blink back tears as she cups his cheek and kisses him softly. The relief, the joy is almost overpowering.

“So,” he murmurs after a few moments of silence, during which she's pulled away again and reached for another sandwich, “do you..? Are you..?” He clears his throat and tries again. “Tell me about your life here, Ruth.”

“Well, I have the bookshop, as you know. It's not very profitable, but I love it and I manage to make ends meet one way or another. I do some translating if I have to and sometimes work as an interpretor if need be, to balance the books. I have one employee, Giuseppe, who's a student at Rome University. I can't afford to pay much, but he likes the work and does a good job managing things when I need to be elsewhere.”

“I think I met him this morning.”

“Yes, you probably did. How is it you found me? You never said.”

“I'll tell you later,” he replies, keen to find out about her life now that he's got her talking. “Sounds like the bookshop takes a lot of your time and energy.”

“It does,” she agrees, “but I love it. I get a lot of students in there – word has got around that I know what I'm doing, I think. And since Giuseppe started working for me in the spring, the word has spread more quickly.” She pauses, reaching for his hand under the water and giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “Before that, I was in a relationship that lasted a while. You remember Beatrice, the girl who came into the shop yesterday?” He nods. “Her father, Hector – he and I were dating. He used to help out in the bookshop when I needed it, but then he asked me to marry him and I... I said no. He was angry, upset. Things ended badly, but it's not Beatrice's fault. He doesn't want her coming round any more, but I don't discourage her. She's a sweet girl and I...”

“You care for her,” he murmurs, squeezing her hand.

“Yes,” she agrees. “I never lived with them, but I stayed over when she was there too sometimes and she started calling me Aunt Alice. It was nice.”

“I'm sorry, Ruth,” he whispers.

“It's fine. Her mother doesn't mind her coming over to the bookshop – she and Hector are divorced – so I still see her often.”

He nods, pleased for her. He's never considered the possibility that Ruth might have wanted children, a family before. He wishes that he'd had the opportunity to ask her, back when there was a chance for them to start one together.

“I'm seeing someone,” she says after a moment of silence, causing a fist to form around his heart, clenching painfully. “I mean, not that I want to be, _now_. It's just that... well, after running into you yesterday, I didn't think... And then seeing you again this morning... I didn't think to ring him or...”

He clears his throat, squeezing her hand tightly as he tries to bring his heart-rate under control again. “To be perfectly honest,” he replies, “I haven't told Meg either.” She frowns, pulling away from him and turning to look at him, causing him to panic. “Not that it isn't over, Ruth. I'm not... toying with either of you. It _is_ over with her, even if you and I don't...” he tails off, unsure of how to finish the sentence. “I just didn't see the point of ruining her holiday. I thought it best to wait until I got home. I'm sorry,” he adds.

She sighs and moves closer, somehow managing to perch her head on his shoulder without submerging her face in the water. “We're not very good people, are we, Harry?”

He wants to argue with that, tell her that she's the best person he knows, but he supposes she has a point and, if she wants to lump them together for whatever reason, he's not about to object to that. “Maybe not, but that makes us perfect for each other,” he murmurs lightly.

She chuckles and lifts her head, turning in the water to look at him. “Where do we go from here, Harry?” she asks.

“Anywhere you want to, Ruth,” he replies. “I'm yours to do with as you will. I can help you run your bookshop, or visit you once a week, once a month, once a year. You can visit me in England, or keep me as a sex slave in this tub.” She smiles at that, eyes sparkling at him. “I would very much like to be with you, Ruth, _always_... but I'm willing to accept anything you want and are able to give me – even no contact at all beyond this weekend if that is what you wish.”

“I don't wish that, Harry,” she reassures him quickly, gently stroking his cheek. “I want you with me too. I want to make this work. I've missed you so much these last few years.”

“That's good,” he replies, thinking that that's the understatement of the year.

“I have to go back on Sunday,” she says, sounding a little sad.

“So I only have two days to prove my value as a sex slave?” he asks, turning towards her and drawing her into his arms. “I'd better get cracking.”

And as her laughter fills the room, he knows that he finally has all he's ever wanted, all that he's been looking for.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation of Italian:
> 
> “Solo un attimo, per favore." - "Just a moment, please."
> 
> “Zia Alice?” - "Aunt Alice?"
> 
> “Sono qui, Beatrice.” - "I'm here, Beatrice."


End file.
